It's Not You It's Him: An absolutely hilarious and feel-good romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  I didn’t ask where Dad was; there was no point.

  ‘I didn’t see your car outside. Has it gone in to have the gearbox fixed again?’ I asked.

  Mum shook her head, and I knew what she was going to say before she said it.

  ‘I’ve been managing all right walking to work. It’s only four miles, and when the weather gets worse there’s always the bus. For now I’m telling myself the exercise will do me good. Sandy at work gave me her old Fitbit and I’m averaging seventeen thousand steps a day – it’s really addictive! And that old banger was costing more in repairs each time, it just wasn’t sustainable any more. Besides, think how much lower my carbon emissions are now.’

  Mum’s carbon emissions had never exactly been astronomical, I thought, imagining with a pang how her ten-hour working days would now increase to twelve or more, and what it would be like for her walking home at three in the morning after a late shift.

  ‘Can I give you a hand with that?’ I asked, as Mum took a head of broccoli out of the fridge and started chopping.

  ‘You could check the spuds,’ she said, and I opened the oven door and shook the pan of perfect, crisp roast potatoes. Mum would never dream of using Aunt Bessie’s.

  ‘It’s too hot for gravy, really,’ she said. ‘But I thought, why the hell not? Since you were coming all this way just for Sunday lunch.’

  She glanced at me sideways, past the curtain of her hair, which looked as parched as straw. I wondered if she thought I’d come with exciting, happy news – I’d been promoted, I’d met A Man, I’d won the lottery and none of us would have to worry about money ever again – and I wished that was the case.

  ‘I’ve been so busy,’ I said feebly. ‘I just had a free day, and I haven’t seen you for ages, and I thought I’d go for it. I wish I could stay longer, but work’s so frantic at the moment.’

  And Barri’s narky as hell, and if I don’t jump soon I’m likely to get pushed, so any time off I take needs to be time spent going to job interviews, otherwise you won’t be the only one trying to work out how the hell to pay the rent, I thought.

  Mum didn’t interrogate me; that wasn’t her way. She’d wait until I said what I’d come to say, I knew, dreading having to say it more with every moment that passed.

  ‘We won’t waste your nice wine on the gravy,’ she said. ‘There’s an ancient bottle of vermouth in the cupboard under the telly that’ll do, with some of the broccoli water and a bit of stock powder.’

  I fetched the things she’d asked for without actually asking, tipped the potatoes into a serving dish and poured wine for us both. While she carved the chicken, I drained the broccoli and took the tray of garlicky butternut squash out of the oven.

  ‘This all looks amazing, Mum,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to make such an effort. I’d have been happy with toast and jam.’

  ‘Toast and jam and Sancerre,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is that a thing now, in fancy London restaurants? Is jam the new avocado?’

  ‘According to BuzzFeed, pineapple’s the new avocado,’ I said, as we sat down and Mum pushed the platter of chicken across the table to me. ‘Not sure it would work on toast, though.’

  While we ate, she asked me about things that didn’t really matter: whether it was worth buying the bargain leopard-print coat she’d spotted in the Oxfam shop, or whether leopard was going to be a single-season trend. (I assured her it was a classic in neutral colours, but in pink or turquoise would look totally 2018 in six months’ time.) How Debbie’s boy was enjoying London. (I swerved that question by saying that Josh was back in Belfast for a few days, cringing at the memory of him storming out of my bedroom after we’d spent the night together, and how he’d totally blanked me since on the couple of occasions we’d happened to be in the kitchen at the same time.) How Perdita’s little Calum was having a growth spurt and keeping the whole house up at night, and Ryan had taken them all off to soft play today so my sister could catch up on sleep, which was why she hadn’t joined us.

  ‘I’ve got some ice cream,’ Mum said. ‘And there’s chocolate sauce in the pan on the hob. Will you heat it up while I clear this away?’

  I nodded. It felt like I had run out of things to talk about, apart from the really important thing I’d made the four-hour train journey from London to say, and was going to return home having said.

  I sparked up the gas under the pan and stirred the thick brown gunk – the recipe Mum had got from her own granny, with margarine, cocoa powder, golden syrup and brown sugar, which by rights should be properly minging but totally worked – until it became runny and hot.

  And then, still stirring, I said, ‘Mum, you know how I’ve been sending you money? And the clothes and stuff I sent for you to sell?’

  ‘Sure, love,’ she said. ‘And you know how grateful I am that you do it.’

  I thought, I’d rather tip this whole pan of boiling sugar over my head than say this. But I said it anyway.

  ‘I can’t any more.’

  Mum took a tub of ice cream out of the freezer and put it on the table with two bowls and two spoons. I kept stirring.

  ‘That’s all right, love. We’ll manage.’

  I turned away from the cooker and looked at her. It felt like we were looking at each other properly for the first time that day – maybe for the first time in a long while.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘Please just listen to me for a second. I got into massive shit at work about the samples. I didn’t know it wasn’t allowed, but if I’d actually asked if it was okay to send them to you to sell, I know what they’d have said. So I never asked. I just did it. And I’ve maxed out all my credit cards on just living – okay, I’ve been stupid and extravagant, but anyone my age should be able to be a bit stupid and extravagant without having to worry about paying their parents’ rent. I’ve ended up doing things I regret, to help you and Dad. And I’ve always wanted to help, you know that, but I can’t any more. I’d lose my job. And really, was I even helping?’

  Mum nodded again, quite calmly, and she said, ‘It’s okay, Tansy. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.’

  She’d scooped ice cream into our bowls, and I poured the chocolate sauce into the jug and put it on the table.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to. Of course I want to. I’d do anything at all if I thought it would really help. But come on. Let’s say I married Renzo. Let’s say I could give you thousands of pounds a month and not notice. Would that really help? Would it?’

  Mum poured chocolate sauce onto her ice cream. It hardened immediately into the consistency of toffee, and I knew I’d boiled it too long. I added some to my own bowl anyway.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘Whatever you do, and whatever I do, Dad’s just going to carry on pissing money away. I don’t mind giving every spare penny I have to you, but I do mind giving it to Ladbrokes, or Paddy Power, or Jack Fortune round the corner. I can’t go on like this. It’s not making me happy, and I don’t think you’re happy either. I know you’re not.’

  Mum picked up her spoon, but a huge sheet of chocolate gloop came with it, so she put it down again. I didn’t even bother trying to eat anything more.

  ‘Okay, Tansy,’ she replied. ‘I won’t expect anything more from you again. I understand. I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Mum.’ I knew it was true, and I knew she believed me. But really, what use was my love to her? Love wasn’t going to pay the rent, or make Dad change his ways. I felt like I’d come to the end of a long, difficult road, but the destination I’d reached was a horrible place where I realised I didn’t want to be after all.

  The sunny kitchen, full of the smells of cooking and silent except for a blackbird singing his head off outside the window, felt suddenly stifling and oppressive, and all I wanted to do was leave. I glanced at my phone and saw that the last train to London left in half an hour. I picked up my bag, gave Mum a quick hug and said goodbye, and hurried back past all the familiar places
to the station. All the way back home, I kept crying and thinking about how I’d ruined the special chocolate sauce.

  The Third Last Date

  ‘But what am I going to wear?’ I sat bolt upright in Renzo’s bed, pushing my tangled hair away from my face.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Something. A dress. The one you had on yesterday was fine.’

  I didn’t point out that what I’d had on yesterday hadn’t been a dress at all, but the midi-skirt and jumper I’d worn to the office, and that even if it had been, the jumper was cashmere and would have to be dry-cleaned before I could wear it again.

  Renzo looked at his phone. ‘Tommy says we’re meeting at twelve. It’s nine now, you’ve got plenty of time. Go to the shops and buy something if you need to.’

  I swung my feet reluctantly onto the floor and stood up. I’d kind of been looking forward to a quiet day in the flat, just the two of us. But Renzo had come back from an early-morning session at the gym and casually told me that we were off to Ascot to see his friend’s horse run its first race over hurdles.

  Horse racing? Gambling? The idea made a whole host of doubts spring up in my mind, but I had no chance to voice them.

  ‘It pulled a ligament, or something,’ Renzo had said. ‘The trainer wasn’t sure it would be fit, so Tommy didn’t arrange anything, but now it’s all going ahead. There’ll be about twenty of us and he’s booked a box. He got a great deal at such short notice.’

  I’d met friends of Renzo’s before, on nights out, shouting over cocktails or dancing in nightclubs. But this felt different – kind of formal. It was like I’d been told I was going to be a guest at a wedding with only four hours’ notice. Okay, maybe you’re the kind of person who’d react to an invitation like that casually and happily, slapping on some make-up and finding an outfit in your wardrobe that would do – because, after all, it was about the happy couple, not you, and no one would remember or care what you looked like.

  If that sounds like you, I envy you from the bottom of my heart. Because I’m not like that. This would be the first time I’d meet a group of Renzo’s friends – and their other halves – en masse. Even more than not wanting to show myself up, I didn’t want to let him down. If I asked him what the other women would be wearing, he’d shrug and say he didn’t know. But I knew. I knew that all his mates’ girlfriends or wives would have only to glance in their wardrobes, rifle through a few things and go, ‘This is my November race day outfit. I’ll wear this.’

  That’s if they hadn’t had enough advance notice to get their personal shopper to do the job for them, who knew exactly what was expected. I didn’t. I could tell Maje from Marc Jacobs at a glance, but that was no help to me now, when I needed to fit in rather than stand out.

  ‘Here you go, fragolina,’ he flicked a credit card at me. Not the black Amex one, one of the others. ‘I think you look beautiful whatever you wear, but what do I know about fashion? There are loads of shops on the high street. Treat yourself to something nice. The PIN’s seven-three-nine-six.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, thinking for the millionth time how lucky I was to have a boyfriend who was so generous and so kind. Half an hour later I was dashing out of Zara with a wine-coloured jumper dress that looked like it had cost far more than forty pounds and, more to the point, would go with the taupe boots and camel-coloured coat I’d worn the day before.

  I dressed quickly, did my face at top speed and put my hair up, because there was no time to wash it, and I was ready only a few minutes after Renzo had started to pace up and down the living room looking at his watch.

  In the end, of course, we weren’t late at all, because as soon as we hit the motorway Renzo put his foot down and his lime-green Lamborghini shot forward like it, too, was a horse in its maiden race. I spent the journey with my toes pressed hard against the footwell, trying not to close my eyes as he weaved through the traffic, occasionally swearing at drivers who were inconsiderate enough to stay within the speed limit.

  By twelve o’clock we were all assembled in the plush private box, and waitresses with trays of champagne and canapés were circulating. I’d been introduced to everyone and promptly forgotten all their names. The men had gravitated together on one side of the room and were talking about work; I gathered that Tommy, the host, had been Renzo’s boss in his previous job, and the others were all connected through the same world. I longed to stick close to Renzo’s side, but the conversation so obviously excluded me that I drifted away to the group of women, collecting a fresh glass of fizz on my way.

  They were all slim, all beautiful and all wearing the kind of expensively tailored dresses you see Kate Middleton in when she’s going to a wedding and there’s a nip in the air. On the rack where we’d left our coats, there were at least two that I was sure were real fur.

  Shyly, I hovered on the outskirts of the group.

  ‘So Georgie started at Dulwich in September,’ one of them was saying. ‘He’s thriving there. Honestly, it’s not just strong academically – which is so important because Andrew’s set his heart on Eton for him – but the pastoral care is wonderful, too, and of course it’s that bit more diverse than many prep schools.’

  ‘How lovely to be able to have him at home, too,’ one of the other women sighed. ‘With Martin and I dividing our time between London and Hong Kong we more or less had to send Cressida to boarding school. But she’s always been such a sociable child – honestly, the life and soul of the party – that she’s settled in so well I swear she was begging to go back this summer, even though we were staying at our place in Cap d’Antibes, which she adores.’

  ‘And how’s your new nanny getting on, Emma? When you came for supper last time she’d just started with you, I think?’

  ‘Lucia’s great. We love her and so do the kids. But we found she just wasn’t able to give them quite the level of enrichment we’d hoped for, so we’ve engaged a tutor three evenings a week and on Saturdays, a lovely boy who’s doing his PhD at King’s. They’re all off to the Science Museum today. Benedict’s an astrophysicist, and he’s taught them so much. Perry was explaining the theory of bouncing cosmology to me the other day and, I have to admit, he completely lost me.’

  ‘Very impressive for a six-year-old,’ laughed one of the other women. ‘And how do you know Renzo?’

  Since I’d been entirely ignored until that point, it took me a moment to realise she was talking to me. I muttered something about how we’d met through my housemate, but then one of the other women cut in.

  ‘We simply can’t make up our minds about Tonbridge versus Benenden for Miranda and we literally have to make a decision within a month or two, because we’re relocating to Kent anyway to make Paul’s commute to the Paris office easier. I wonder what you girls all think?’

  I felt myself blushing like an idiot, feeling hideously out of place among these women, none of whom looked old enough to have had children but clearly were, and was relieved when people started to drift towards the table. I prayed that Renzo hadn’t seen me standing there like a lemon with nothing to say for myself, instead of being all witty and charming, at the centre of an intelligent conversation, the way I wanted him to think of me.

  Maybe I could sit next to him at lunch, I thought. At least he’d talk to me. But I was directed to a seat between a man called Matthew, who immediately turned to the woman on his right and started talking about whether it was sensible to buy property in France now or wait until after Brexit, and a man called Martin.

  I gulped some of the white wine that had been poured into my glass, expecting him to ignore me, too. But he didn’t.

  ‘So what do you fancy for the third race, Tansy?’ he asked kindly, picking up a printed, cream-coloured booklet from next to his plate. ‘Tommy’s horse is number four, Wingman, see? There he is, with the pink and yellow colours.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, picking up my knife and fork to eat my smoked salmon as I cast my eye down the list of names. Bagatelle, Shirley’s Lost, Charmi
ng Cousin, Finchcock – all with their jockeys’ colours printed next to them and the data explaining their form below.

  ‘A fiver on Charming Cousin, maybe?’ Martin twinkled at me. ‘It’s at five to one on. That means if he won you’d get your original stake back plus another pound.’

  Thanks to Dad, I’d never bet on anything in my life, ever. I’d never even bought a Lotto ticket. It felt like putting my foot on a slope down which I might too easily slip. But also thanks to Dad, I’d acquired a knowledge of horse-racing form, and handicapping, and how the whole rigged system worked, almost by osmosis and certainly against my will. Now, the little rows of numbers and statistics felt as familiar and understandable as one of my spreadsheets at work.

  And besides, emboldened by wine, I was suddenly resentful at being ignored by the women and now mansplained to by Martin.

  I leaned over his racecard and said, ‘Number three’s carrying more weight than she’s used to, and the going’s heavy. Charming Cousin’s the favourite but he’s got an outside draw and will struggle to make up ground over the distance. Number nine is having her first run over fences, too, so she’s at long odds and the handicapper’s been kind to her. But look at her breeding, and her trainer, and her record on the flat. She’s a stayer, and likes the wet. I’d go for her to win, and Tommy’s horse each way.’

  Martin barked with surprised laughter. ‘You talk a good game. Let’s see if you deliver.’

  And he squeezed my knee under the tablecloth, put his knife and fork together and went off to put his bet in.

  We ate roast beef with mashed potatoes and green beans, and I drank more wine, and then Tommy strutted self-importantly down to watch his horse being saddled up, accompanied by his wife and a few others. I stayed where I was, not wanting to risk the heady atmosphere that was building up getting to me and sending me scurrying over to bet everything that remained in my bank account on a horse.

  But when Martin appeared by my side again and said, ‘They’re off! Come and watch,’ I couldn’t help but follow him.